#sub homelander

The Vought Tower penthouse kitchen smelled like heaven. Chocolate chip cookies, just beginning to brown in the oven, filled the air with their warm, sweet promise. Flour dusted the marble countertops like fresh snow, and a bowl of leftover batter sat forgotten near the sink.

You were perched on the edge of the counter, your legs dangling, wearing nothing but one of Homelander's navy blue Vought-issue t-shirt and a pair of pale pink lace underwear. The shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of your collarbone, and the hem barely brushed your upper thighs.

Maeve stood between your legs, her hands cupping your face, her thumbs stroking your cheeks. Her sports bra left little to the imagination, and those black lace panties—your black lace panties—clung to her hips like they belonged there. Which they did now. She'd claimed them with a smirk and a kiss, and you'd let her.

"You're so pretty" Maeve murmured against your lips, her voice low and rough with affection. "So fucking pretty, sweet girl. You know that?"

"Maeve-" you protested weakly, but you were smiling, your hands coming up to rest on her bare hips. "Your hands are covered in flour! You're getting it all over my hair!"

"Good," she said, pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth. "then you'll smell like cookies. Like the perfect little housewife you are."

"Maeve-"

"Shh." She kissed you again, softer this time, her lips lingering. "Let me have this. Let me have you."

You melted into her, because that's what she did to you. Maeve had a way of making the world fall away, of making you feel like the only person in existence worth looking at. When she looked at you with those sharp green eyes, you felt seen. Really seen. Not like one of America's heroes, not like the public figure everyone loved, not like the comforting face on a thousand lunchboxes and action figures. Just... you.

Your fingers threaded through her copper hair, tugging gently, and she hummed against your mouth. The sound vibrated through you, warm and possessive, and you arched into her touch.

"Those cookies are for John, you know," you said between kisses, your voice breathless. "You're helping me eat the evidence."

"Let him have the burned ones," Maeve said, grinning against your lips. "He'll be grateful for anything you make him. You could serve him sawdust and he'd thank you like you'd given him the moon."

"He's not that bad."

"He's exactly that bad." She pulled back just enough to look at you, her eyes glinting with amusement. "But you have him wrapped around your little finger, sweetheart. You and me both."

"Maeve..." You ducked your head, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. It still made you shy, sometimes, the way she looked at you. The way both of them looked at you.

"Don't get shy on me now..." she said, tilting your chin up with a flour-dusted finger. "You're the one who suggested we 'welcome him home properly', sweet girl. Your words, not mine."

You bit your lip. "I just thought... he's been gone for three days. He always comes back so tense, and I thought maybe if we-"

"You thought maybe if we made him cookies and let him watch us make out, he'd calm down?" Maeve's smile was sharp and knowing. "You're too sweet for him, you know that? He doesn't deserve you."

"He deserves someone who cares about him," you said softly. "And I do. And so do you. Even if you pretend you don't."

Maeve's expression softened, just for a moment, before she covered it with a scoff. "I don't pretend. I make it very clear that I think he's a pathetic, preening, emotionally stunted man-baby."

"And yet you're still here. Still dating him. Still sharing me with him."

She was quiet for a moment, her hands dropping to your thighs, squeezing gently. "Because you make it work," she said finally. "You're the glue, sweet girl. Without you, it's just... him and me, and that's not—" She shook her head. "That's not good for anyone. Especially not for me."

You lifted your hand to her cheek, wiping away a smudge of flour. "I'm not going anywhere."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

She kissed you again, deeper this time, her tongue sliding against yours, and you moaned into her mouth, your fingers tightening in her hair. Her hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of the shirt, and she squeezed your ass, pulling you closer to the edge of the counter.

"God, I love you," she breathed against your lips. "I love you so fucking much."

"I love you too, Maeve."

"Say it again."

"I love you."

"Again."

"I love you, I love you, I love you-"

The sound of the penthouse door sliding open cut through the moment.

Maeve pulled back, but she didn't move away from you. Instead, she turned her head, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face as Homelander stepped into the kitchen.

He was still in his suit, the red-and-white cape draped over one shoulder, the blue of his suit immaculate except for a few smudges of what looked like soot near his collar, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the two of you.

On you, specifically. Sitting on the counter in his shirt. With Maeve between your legs. In your panties.

"Well," he said, eyebrows rising, voice carefully neutral. "This is a welcome."

You smiled shyly, flushing a bit, trying to push Maeve away from sheer embarassment, but she just laughed, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before stepping back.

"Look what the cat dragged in.." she said, sauntering toward him. She grabbed the front of his suit and pulled him into a kiss, deep and dirty, her tongue sliding into his mouth before she pulled back with a smirk. "You're late."

"Mission ran long," he said, his eyes already drifting back to you. "Had to deal with a few... complications."

"Complications you could have handled faster if you'd stopped playing with your food."

"Maybe." He was still looking at you, but then his eyes diped down to the oven. "Did you—are those cookies?"

You bit your lip, nodding. "Chocolate chip. Your favorite. I thought-"

"She thought you'd be hungry." Maeve interrupted, grabbing him by the front of his suit and dragging him further into the kitchen. "So she spent all afternoon baking for you. Didn't you, sweet girl?"

"I just wanted to-"

"To be nice." Maeve interrupted again, pushing him down into one of the chairs at the kitchen island. He went willingly, his eyes never leaving you. "To take care of you. Because that's what she does. She takes care of everyone."

"Is that true?" Homelander asked, his voice softening. "You made me cookies?"

You nodded, sliding off the counter and walking toward him. Maeve intercepted you, lifting you off your feet to give you a spin and carrying you the last few feet before dropping you onto Homelander's lap with a playful grin.

You landed with a delighted squeak, your hands bracing on his shoulders as you settled onto his thighs. The suit was warm beneath you, the fabric smooth and unyielding, and you could feel the tension in his shoulders, the coiled strength in his frame, and the way he was... perking in interest.

"Hello, John." you said softly, wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Hello to you too, baby." he replied, his hands coming up to rest on your hips. He looked almost shy with his eyes darting between you and Maeve.

"Don't just sit there," Maeve said, already turning toward the oven. "Thank her properly."

"Thank you," he said quickly. "The cookies, I mean. Thank you for-"

"I said properly." Maeve repeated, pulling open the oven door. She bent over to retrieve the baking sheet, deliberately slow, deliberately arching her back to show off the curve of her ass in those black lace panties. "You know what I mean, John."

You watched his eyes flick to Maeve's ass, then back to you. His hands tightened on your hips.

"Take off the gloves." you said softly, and he obeyed immediately, pulling off the red gauntlets and dropping them to the floor. His bare hands settled on your thighs, warm and calloused, and you shivered.

"Good boy." you murmured, and he let out a shaky breath.

You kissed him.

It started soft, just a brush of lips against lips, but then you tilted your head and deepened it, your tongue sliding against his, and he groaned into your mouth. His hands slid up your thighs, under the hem of the shirt, and you gasped as his fingers found your slick heat.

"You're already so wet..." he breathed against your lips, and you bit back a moan. "Maeve did that?"

"You know damn well I did."

"Maeve-!"

"Shh." He kissed you again, two fingers sliding inside you, and you arched into his touch. "Let me take care of you, babe. Let me make you feel good."

"Don't tell her what to do." Maeve said, her voice sharp as she set the cookies aside. She walked back to the two of you, her arms crossed, her eyes glinting. "You're not in charge here."

"I wasn't-"

"Oh, but you were." She reached down and grabbed his chin, tilting his face up to meet her gaze. "You're here to make her feel good. That's your only job. Understand?"

He swallowed hard. "Yes, ma'am."

"Good boy." She let go of his chin and leaned down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Now make our girl feel good. And if she doesn't come before you do, I'll be very disappointed in you."

"Not a problem-" Homelander scrambled to get out as quick as possible, his eyes sliding to you. "I've got her."

He curled his fingers inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars, and you cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders. His thumb pressed against your clit, circling slowly, and you bucked against his hand.

"That's it, sweet girl." Maeve cooed, her hand coming up to stroke your hair. "Let him make you feel good. You've been so sweet for us today, baking cookies, taking care of us. You deserve to feel good."

"Please," you gasped, your hips grinding against his hand. "John, please-"

"Please what?" he asked, his voice breathless. "Tell me what you want, baby, c'mon."

"More- I want more—"

He added a third finger, stretching you, and you sobbed with pleasure, your head falling back. Maeve caught you, her hand on the back of your neck, and she kissed your forehead, your temple, the corner of your mouth.

"Thaaaat's it.." she murmured. "That's our good girl. You're so beautiful like this, sweetheart. So fucking beautiful."

"Please- I'm so close—"

"Come for him," Maeve said. "give him the satisfaction."

And you did, your body shuddering as you came undone on Homelander's fingers, your cries muffled by his mouth as he kissed you through it. His other hand wrapped around your waist, holding you steady, and you felt him trembling beneath you.

"John.." Maeve said, her voice low and dangerous. "Look at me."

He pulled back from the kiss, his eyes hazy, his pupils blown wide. "Yeah?"

"You've been such a good boy for us.." she said, her fingers tracing down his throat. "Helping our girl come undone. But I think you're close too, aren't you? I can feel you twitching under her."

He let out a shaky laugh. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" She raised an eyebrow. "Don't lie to me, John. It's not a good look on you."

"It's just- it's been three days," he admitted, his voice strained. "And she's so fucking beautiful, and she's sitting on my lap, and you're- you're wearing her panties too and- I can smell her on my fingers—"

"So you're going to come in your pants like a teenager?" Maeve asked, her tone mocking but not unkind. "Is that what you want, Homelander? To cream your suit like a pathetic little boy?"

"Fuck-" he breathed, his hips bucking up into yours. "Maeve-"

You started rocking down on him, mewling with oversensitivity, but deeming it a valid price to pay to hear the way his breath suddenly hitched on his chest and see the way his eyes struggled not to get cross.

"Come on." she said, leaning down to start pressing kisses to his neck. "Come for us, John. Be a good boy and come for your girls."

He came with a groan, his body going rigid as he spilled into his suit, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. You held him, stroking his hair, pressing soft kisses to his temple.

"Good boy." you murmured. "Such a good boy, John."

"Fuck," he said again, his voice muffled against your skin. "That was-"

"Pathetic and sad?" Maeve offered, but she was smiling as she said it, her hand coming up to ruffle his hair. "You're lucky you're cute, you know that?"

"Am I?" he asked, looking up at her with something like hope in his eyes.

"No." she replied flatly, deadpan. "You're really not. But she is, and she loves you for some reason, so you get to keep being pathetic in her presence."

"Hey!" you protested jokingly, a smile tugging on your lips. "That's not nice."

"A bit?" Maeve snorted. "He literally just came in his pants from fingering you, honey" she said, looking at you, before turning back to Homelander. "You're an absolute disaster of a man."

"Is that what that is?" Homelander asked, and Maeve actually laughed, a real laugh, bright and surprised.

You beamed at both of them, this strange, impossible set-up you'd found. Maeve, who wrapped herself in armor because she'd been hurt too many times. Homelander, who hid behind a mask because he'd never learned how to be anything else. And you, sitting in his lap, in his shirt, between them like a bridge.

"I love you both," you said softly. "You know that, right?"

Maeve's expression softened. "I know, sweetheart."

Homelander's eyes widened, just for a moment, before he ducked his head. "Yeah. Yeah, we know. We love you too, babe."

"I'll prove it," Maeve said, heading back to the cookies. "I saved you a few, John. The ones that didn't burn."

"Really?" He perked up like a child.

"Really." She grabbed two cookies and tossed one to him. He caught it easily and took a bite, his eyes fluttering closed.

"These are amazing," he said, his voice muffled around a mouthful of cookie.

Maeve took a bite of her own, then picked up a third, leaning over you to press it to your lips. "Open, sweet girl. You need to eat too."

You bit into the cookie, the chocolate melting on your tongue, and Maeve kissed the corner of your mouth, licking away a crumb.

"Perfect," she said, and you weren't sure if she meant the cookie, or you, or all of it. Probably all of it.

"This is really good," Homelander said, finishing his cookie in two bites. He looked at you, his expression almost soft. "Thank you. Really."

"Of course, John," you said, cupping his face in your hands. "Anything for you."

"You know," Maeve said, leaning against the counter with her own cookie, "if you keep spoiling him like this, he's going to get insufferable."

"I'm already insufferable," Homelander said, grinning. "It's part of my charm."

"Your charm is a very long list of things that are not charming," Maeve said. "But you've got a few points in your favor. Mostly because of her."

"I know." He turned to kiss your forehead. "I know."

The office was bathed in the soft, amber glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the vast expanse of New York twinkling far below like a sea of captive stars. The tinted glass created a sanctuary of privacy, a fishbowl effect that worked only one way—you could see out, but no one could see in. It was a power play you'd insisted on when they'd designed this corner office for you, a testament to the fact that after twenty-three years of clawing your way up through the corporate ranks, you'd earned the right to look down upon the world without offering it the same courtesy.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard, the soft clacking of keys the only sound punctuating the rhythm of wet, desperate sounds that filled the room. The quarterly reports were due by midnight, and despite the... distraction currently occupying your lap, you were nothing if not professional. You'd built your empire on discipline, on being the woman who could handle anything thrown at her, who could juggle ten crises simultaneously while maintaining perfect composure.

And right now, that composure was being thoroughly tested.

"Nngh—ngh—ngh—a-ah—"

The sounds punched out of him with every downward thrust, high and needy and utterly wrecked. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring somewhere at the ceiling where the shadows from your desk lamp danced. A thin line of drool escaped the corner of his lips, trailing down his chin and dripping onto his chest.

Your eyes flicked from your screen to him, just for a moment, just long enough to take in the sight. The most powerful man on Earth, the one who could level cities with a glare, bouncing on your lap like a common whore.

He was beautiful like this.

"Shh, sweetheart," you murmured, your eyes never leaving the screen as you continued typing. "You're doing so well for me. So, so well. Just a little longer, okay?"

A sob escaped the man currently straddling your lap, his powerful thighs trembling with the effort of maintaining his rhythm. The vibrating strap-on buried deep inside him was set to its highest setting, and every time he sank down onto it, a broken moan was torn from his throat.

His suit lay discarded in a heap on your office floor, along with his cape and boots, leaving him completely naked save for the sheen of perspiration coating his muscular form. His chest was heaving, his nipples were pebbled. They seemed to beg for attention, standing at attention like twin soldiers, and every time the rough fabric of your suit jacket brushed against them, John's entire body would seize up, a hiccuping whine escaping his lips.

"I—I can't-" he gasped, his fingers digging into the armrests of your chair, his knuckles white. "Please, Mommy, I can't- it's too much, it's-"

"That's not what I asked you to call me tonight, John." you said calmly, and the use of his real name made him shudder, a fresh wave of precum spilling from his achingly hard cock. It was obscene, the amount of fluid leaking from him. His thighs were slick with it, the head of his cock a deep, angry purple, constantly weeping. It looked like he'd already come three or four times, but you knew better. John had been riding you for nearly forty minutes now, and he hadn't been allowed to come once.

You'd made him wait. You always made him wait.

It was the only way to keep him manageable, to keep him from becoming that terrifying, untouchable god the world saw. Here, in your office, with your strap buried in his ass and your hands typing away at quarterly reports, he was just John. Just your needy, pathetic, desperate boy who would do anything, anything, for a scrap of praise.

"Sorry—I'm sorry, ma'am, I'm sorry- I'm sorry-uh-uh" he babbled, his hips stuttering as he tried to maintain the rhythm. "I didn't- I forgot, I'm so sorry, please don't be mad, plea-ah-seee-"

"I'm not mad, sweet boy," you said softly, and the endearment made his eyes flutter, a choked sob escaping him. "I could never be mad at you when you're being such a good boy for me. Look at you, riding my cock like you were made for it. My beautiful, perfect boy."

John keened, high and desperate, his head falling back as he bounced faster, harder. The muscles in his thighs were quivering with the strain, but he pushed himself, wanting—needing—to be good for you. To earn your praise. To prove that he was worthy of your attention, your time, your care.

"More," he begged, the word slurred and desperate. "Please, I need—I need more, I can—"

"You can take it," you said firmly, and your free hand came up to cup his jaw, forcing him to meet your eyes. His gaze was completely glassy, pupils blown so wide that the blue of his irises was barely visible. He looked utterly wrecked, tears spilling down his cheeks in steady streams, his lips swollen from how hard he'd been biting them. "You can take everything I give you, can't you, John? You can be my good boy and take every single bit of it."

"Y-yes—yes, yes, yes, I'm your good boy, I'm- aah—" His hips rolled, chasing the angle, and he sobbed when the silicone head caught his prostate. "Please, please, I need- I need-"

"Shh, shh.." you soothed, and your hand moved from his jaw to the back of his neck, pulling him forward until his forehead was pressed against yours. His breath was hot and ragged against your lips, his entire body shaking. "You're doing so well for me, taking my cock so perfectly. My beautiful, perfect boy. Do you know how proud I am of you?"

A sob tore from his throat, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. His hips stuttered, and you felt his cock twitch against your stomach, a fresh wave of precum spilling from him to smear against the silk of your blouse. You'd have to get it dry-cleaned, but that was a problem for later. Right now, the only thing that mattered was John, your desperate, broken boy, falling apart on your lap.

"You're so wet for me, John.." you cooed, reaching up to thumb a tear from his cheek. He leaned into the touch desperately, nuzzling your palm like a starving animal. "Look at you. Soaking my lap, and you haven't even come yet."

"Can't—can't help itttt-" He was babbling, words tumbling out broken and breathless. "You- you make me- ngh, make me leak, I can't- I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'll be better, I'll be-"

"Shh, shh, baby." You gripped his hip with your free hand, guiding his rhythm. "I'm not mad. I love how messy you get for me. Only for me, right? Only I to see you like this?"

His entire body jerked, a broken sob tearing out of his throat. "Yes- yes- only you, only you, I promise ma'am-"

"Good boy."

Another sob. His hips slammed down harder, desperate, chasing something he couldn't quite reach.

"I'm—I'm so close," he whimpered, his voice cracking. "Please, please let me come, I need it so bad, I need-"

"You come when I say you can. That's the rule. You don't want to disappoint me, do you?"

"No—no, never, I'll be good-" He hiccuped, tears spilling faster. "I'll be so good, I promise, I'll be the best-"

"I know you will." You softened, your thumb stroking his cheek. "That's why you're my favorite. My perfect, pretty boy."

A sound of pure anguish escaped him, but he nodded frantically, his nails digging into the leather of the chair. "Yes, yes, I'll be good, I'll be so good, just- please keep-"

"I know you will." you said, and you pressed a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth, tasting the salt from his tears. "You're always so good for me, aren't you? My precious boy. My perfect little thing."

The praise made him preen even as he wept, his body unconsciously grinding down harder onto the strap. The vibrator was doing its work, and you knew exactly how it felt.. the deep, rumbling vibrations hitting that spot inside him that made him see stars, making him stupid and desperate and completely pliant in your hands.

The familiar ding of an email notification pulled your attention back to the screen, and you turned away from him, your hand slipping from his neck to rest on his hip instead. John whimpered at the loss of contact, his hips faltering.

"Keep going," you said absently, your eyes scanning the report that had just come in. "You're doing so well, sweetheart. Don't stop now."

He didn't, because he couldn't. John was physically incapable of disobeying you, not when you'd spent months training him to associate defiance with the withdrawal of your affection. He needed your praise like he needed air, like he needed the approval of the crowds that worshipped him—except this was different. This was personal. This was you, the woman who had seen through every mask he wore, who had stripped him bare and found him wanting and had decided to keep him anyway.

The thought made him dizzy, made his hips grind down even harder, a broken moan escaping his lips.

"Please," he begged, his voice high and desperate. "Please look at me, I need you to look at me, please-"

"I'm looking at you, baby." you said, though your eyes were still on the screen. "I can see you from here. You look so beautiful like this, all desperate and needy on my cock. My perfect little thing."

He keened, his head falling back, his hips moving in a frantic rhythm. His cock was leaking so much precum that it was dripping onto your trousers, making a mess of your expensive clothes. He knew you'd punish him for that later, knew you'd probably make him clean it up with his tongue, and the thought made him shudder with want.

"Please-" he gasped again, his rhythm faltering as his body began to tense. "I'm going to- I can't-"

"John." you said sharply, and the tone of your voice made him freeze immediately, even as his body screamed at him to keep going, to chase the pleasure that was so close, so agonizingly close. "I told you. Not. Yet."

A sob tore from his throat, his entire body shaking with the effort of holding back. His cock was twitching, weeping, so close to the edge that he could almost taste it, but he held himself still, his nails digging into the armrests of the chair. He was completely at your mercy, and he'd never been happier.

"Good boy," you praised, and the words washed over him like a benediction, making him shudder. "That's my good boy. Holding back for me, taking what I give you. I'm so proud of you, John. So, so proud."

His breath hitched, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "Thank you- thank you, ma'am, thank you-"

"You're welcome, sweetheart." you said, and you finally turned away from the screen to give him your full attention. His eyes met yours, desperate and pleading, and you felt a surge of affection for this ridiculous, powerful man who had been reduced to a weeping mess on your lap.

"I've got something for you," you said softly, and your hands came up to cup his face, thumbs brushing away the tears that stained his cheeks. "A little surprise. Do you want to know what it is?"

He nodded frantically, leaning into your touch like a starving man. "Yes—yes, please, please tell me- tell me, tellmetellme-"

"I finished my work." you said, and the words hung in the air between you for a moment before John's eyes widened, a sound of pure, desperate need escaping him.

"You—you're finished?" he asked, his voice trembling with hope. "You're done? You can—you can focus on me now?"

"I can focus on you now." you confirmed. "What do you want, sweetheart? Tell me what you want."

"You-" he breathed, his voice cracking. "I want you. I want you to—to do whatever you want. To use me. Just- please, I want-"

"I know what you want." you cut him off, and you kissed him, soft and slow and utterly consuming. He melted into the kiss like it was the only thing keeping him tethered to reality, his hands coming up to grip your shoulders, to hold on as if he'd drown without you.

You pulled away, and the whimper that escaped him was pitiful, broken, utterly desperate.

"Let's get you comfortable." you murmured, and the way his pupils dilated told you he'd already imagined what was coming. "I'm going to lay you out and fuck you until you can't remember your own name. Do you want that, John? Do you want to be my good little thing, my perfect boy?"

"Yes-" he sobbed, nodding frantically. "Yes, please- fuck—"

And then you were moving, standing up from the chair with John still impaled on your strap, and the shift in position made him gasp, his legs wrapping around your waist automatically as you lifted him. He was heavy, of course—a fully grown man, a superhuman—but you didn't care. You'd learned to handle his weight months ago, had figured out exactly how to support him so that you could move him around like he weighed nothing at all.

He clung to you, his face buried in the crook of your neck, broken sobs escaping him as you slowly lowered down onto the desk amidst the papers and pens. The vibrator was still going, still hitting that spot inside him, and he was so close, so desperately, agonizingly close-

"Not yet." you said, as if you could read his mind. "Not until I tell you."

He sobbed, but nodded, holding on tighter.

The wooden surface was cold against his back, and the contrast made him shiver. His legs were still wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer, desperate for more contact, more friction, more you.

"Look at you.." you murmured, and you positioned yourself, angling the strap so that it hit that spot with every thrust. "So beautiful. So perfect. My desperate little thing."

"Please—" he begged, his hands reaching for you, trying to pull you closer. "Please, ma'am, please-"

"I know, baby." you said, and you leaned down to kiss his neck, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "I know what you need. You need me to make you feel good, don't you? To take care of you?"

"Yes—yes, please, I—"

You bit down, hard, and the sound that escaped him was a sob of pure, desperate pleasure. His hips bucked up into you, a fresh wave of precum spilling from his cock, and you felt his body tense, felt him trying so hard to hold back, to be good for you.

"That's it." you praised, and your hand came up to tweak one of his nipples, rolling the sensitive bud between your fingers. He screamed, a broken sound that was part plea, part worship, his entire body arching off the table. "Thaaaaat's a good boy. Taking everything I give you. My perfect little thing."

"Please-" he sobbed again, and you could feel him shaking, could feel how close he was to the edge. "Please, I can't- I need-"

"You need to come?" you asked, and your lips found his other nipple, biting down hard. A high, desperate keen slipped past his lips. "Is that what you need, baby? You need to come on my cock?"

"Yes- yes, please, please, I need it, I need-"

"Then come" you commanded, delivering a hard thrust hitting him right where he was wanting, his body convulsing as he spilled all over his stomach, wave after wave of white cum painting his skin. The sound he made was a broken, shattered, sob of pure, desperate relief.

But you didn't stop. You kept thrusting, kept fucking him through his orgasm and beyond, and he was so sensitive, so overstimulated that every movement sent fresh jolts of pain and pleasure through him. He was sobbing now, incoherent, his hands scrabbling at the wooden surface of the table as he tried to find something to hold onto.

"Too much-" he gasped, his voice cracking. "s'too much, can't-"

"Yes, you can." you said, and your teeth found his neck again, marking him where the collar of his suit would hide the bruise. "You can take it, John. You can take anything I give you. Because you're my good boy, aren't you? My perfect, desperate little thing?"

"Yes-" he sobbed, nodding frantically. "Yes, m'your good boy, m'your perfect—ah!—thing, m'yours, m'-"

"My precious boy." you cooed as your hand came up to stroke his hair, the gesture so soft and tender that it seemed almost incongruous with the way you were fucking him.

He cried harder at that, his body shaking with the force of his sobs, but he didn't try to pull away. He couldn't. He needed this, needed you, more than he'd ever needed anything in his life.

"Can you give me one more?" you asked, and the question was soft, almost gentle. "Can you be my good boy and give me one more?"

"I-I-" He was sobbing too hard to form words, but he nodded, his legs tightening around your waist. "Please- please—"

"Shh..." you soothed, and you pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I know you can. You're strong, John. The strongest man in the world."

He keened, and you felt his cock twitch against your stomach, already hardening again despite everything. He was so responsive, so desperately eager to please, and the knowledge sent a thrill through you.

"That's it." you praised, and you felt his body begin to tense again, felt him getting closer. "That's my good boy. Let go for me, sweetheart. Let go, come on—"

You startedslamming into him with brutal, punishing thrusts. The desk shook with the force of it, the metal legs scraping against the floor. John screamed, high and broken, his head thrown back, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the wood.

"There- right there- pleeeaaaseee-"

"Right there?" You cooed, angling your hips, hitting his prostate with every stroke. "Like this, baby? Is this what you needed?"

"Yes-yes, yes, yes-fuck—"

With a choked off moan that had his eyes rolling back into his head, another wave of cum spilled from him. This time, it was weaker, more desperate.

You slowed your thrusts, gentling him through the aftershocks, your hands moving to stroke his hair, to cup his face, to wipe away the tears that still streamed down his cheeks.

"Good boy," you murmured, over and over. "So good for me. My perfect boy. You did so well, John. So, so well."